One of Sherlock Holmes’s defects—if， indeed， one may call ita defect—was that he was exceedingly loath to communicate hisfull plans to any other person until the instant of their fulfilment.
Partly it came no doubt from his own masterful nature， whichloved to dominate and surprise those who were around him. Partlyalso from his professional caution， which urged him never to takeany chances. The result， however， was very trying for those whowere acting as his agents and assistants. I had often suffered underit， but never more so than during that long drive in the darkness.
The great ordeal was in front of us； at last we were about to makeour final effort， and yet Holmes had said nothing， and I could onlysurmise what his course of action would be. My nerves thrilledwith anticipation when at last the cold wind upon our faces andthe dark， void spaces on either side of the narrow road told methat we were back upon the moor once again. Every stride of thehorses and every turn of the wheels was taking us nearer to oursupreme adventure.
Our conversation was hampered by the presence of thedriver of the hired wagonette， so that we were forced to talk oftrivial matters when our nerves were tense with emotion andanticipation. It was a relief to me， after that unnatural restraint，when we at last passed Frankland’s house and knew that we weredrawing near to the Hall and to the scene of action. We did notdrive up to the door but got down near the gate of the avenue.
The wagonette was paid off and ordered to return to CoombeTracey forthwith， while we started to walk to Merripit House.
“Are you armed， Lestrade？”
The little detective smiled.
“As long as I have my trousers I have a hip-pocket， and as longas I have my hip-pocket I have something in it.”
“Good！ My friend and I are also ready for emergencies.”
“You’re mighty close about this affair， Mr. Holmes. What’s thegame now？”
“A waiting game.”
“My word， it does not seem a very cheerful place，” said thedetective with a shiver， glancing round him at the gloomy slopesof the hill and at the huge lake of fog which lay over the GrimpenMire. “I see the lights of a house ahead of us.”
“That is Merripit House and the end of our journey. I mustrequest you to walk on tiptoe and not to talk above a whisper.”
We moved cautiously along the track as if we were bound forthe house， but Holmes halted us when we were about two hundredyards from it.
“This will do，” said he. “These rocks upon the right make anadmirable screen.”
“We are to wait here？”
“Yes， we shall make our little ambush here. Get into this hollow，Lestrade. You have been inside the house， have you not， Watson？
Can you tell the position of the rooms？ What are those latticedwindows at this end？”
“I think they are the kitchen windows.”
“And the one beyond， which shines so brightly？”
“That is certainly the dining-room.”
“The blinds are up. You know the lie of the land best. Creepforward quietly and see what they are doing—but for heaven’s sakedon’t let them know that they are watched！”
I tiptoed down the path and stooped behind the low wall whichsurrounded the stunted orchard. Creeping in its shadow I reacheda point whence I could look straight through the uncurtainedwindow.
There were only two men in the room， Sir Henry and Stapleton.
They sat with their profiles towards me on either side of theround table. Both of them were smoking cigars， and coffee andwine were in front of them. Stapleton was talking with animation，but the baronet looked pale and distrait. Perhaps the thought ofthat lonely walk across the ill-omened moor was weighing heavilyupon his mind.
As I watched them Stapleton rose and left the room， while SirHenry filled his glass again and leaned back in his chair， puffingat his cigar. I heard the creak of a door and the crisp sound ofboots upon gravel. The steps passed along the path on the otherside of the wall under which I crouched. Looking over， I saw thenaturalist pause at the door of an out-house in the corner of theorchard. A key turned in a lock， and as he passed in there was acurious scuffling noise from within. He was only a minute or soinside， and then I heard the key turn once more and he passed meand reёntered the house. I saw him rejoin his guest， and I creptquietly back to where my companions were waiting to tell themwhat I had seen.
“You say， Watson， that the lady is not there？” Holmes asked，when I had finished my report.
“No.”
“Where can she be， then， since there is no light in any otherroom except the kitchen？”
“I cannot think where she is.”
I have said that over the great Grimpen Mire there hung adense， white fog. It was drifting slowly in our direction， andbanked itself up like a wall on that side of us， low but thick andwell defined. The moon shone on it， and it looked like a greatshimmering ice-field， with the heads of the distant tors as rocksborne upon its surface. Holmes’s face was turned towards it， andhe muttered impatiently as he watched its sluggish drift.
“It’s moving towards us， Watson.”
“Is that serious？”
“Very serious， indeed—the one thing upon earth which couldhave disarranged my plans. He can’t be very long， now. It is alreadyten o’clock. Our success and even his life may depend upon hiscoming out before the fog is over the path.”
The night was clear and fine above us. The stars shone coldand bright， while a half-moon bathed the whole scene in a soft，uncertain light. Before us lay the dark bulk of the house， itsserrated roof and bristling chimneys hard outlined against thesilver-spangled sky. Broad bars of golden light from the lowerwindows stretched across the orchard and the moor. One of themwas suddenly shut off. The servants had left the kitchen. Thereonly remained the lamp in the dining-room where the two men，the murderous host and the unconscious guest， still chatted overtheir cigars.
